The first thing I noticed wasn't my rank. It was the silence around it. No whispers. No pointed stares. Just a strange, deliberate calm, like someone had instructed the entire hallway to stay neutral while watching me burn. Rank 63. Not threatening. Not humbling. Just… inconvenient. It meant I existed. And that alone was a problem. I walked past the digital board like it wasn't flashing my name and my placement in giant letters. Like I didn't feel the tension shift behind every turned head. Yuri caught up with me in front of the lockers, her bag slung low and her eyes already scanning for threats.
– You're a number now. Welcome to the economy.
– Great. When do I start earning interest?
– Not how it works. You're already in debt.
– To who?
– Reputation. Expectation. The market's watching.
I raised an eyebrow.
– You're poetic for someone who usually threatens me with salad forks.
She smirked.
– You haven't seen what I do with chopsticks.
The joke fell flat under the weight of what we both knew. Visibility was a trap. And now that I had a number, people would start deciding what it was worth to them.
Between second and third period, I saw him. Ji Yeonjun. Quiet. Top 20. Always seated second row, always turned in assignments a day early, always left no trace. He didn't speak unless asked. Didn't eat lunch in the cafeteria. Didn't participate in clubs. But his name had been in the file Yena gave me. Underlined twice.
Yuri nudged my shoulder.
– You're thinking of approaching him.
– I'm thinking of observing him.
– He's not the kind you observe. He notices.
That made it more interesting.
I waited until the hallway thinned out and approached his desk before class started. He looked up before I said anything.
– Lee Nina.
– Wow. You learn names. That's flattering.
– I study patterns. You're becoming one.
I sat in the chair in front of him, ignoring the way two students behind us immediately went quiet.
– You don't talk to many people.
– And yet here you are.
– I'm curious.
– That's a liability in this place.
He closed his notebook. Carefully. Like sealing a weapon.
– You're ranked just high enough to matter, and just low enough to be expendable.
– So are you.
His eyes didn't flinch. But I saw it. The smallest hesitation.
– I don't make mistakes, he said.
– Neither did I. Until I trusted the wrong silence.
The bell rang. Class started. But I'd seen enough. Ji Yeonjun wasn't untouchable. Just careful. And careful people crack differently.
In the cafeteria, the seating had shifted again. Not dramatically. But enough to see the borders. The Top 20 now ate closer to the faculty corner. Those ranked 50 and below scattered around the periphery. I sat with Yuri, who stabbed her rice like it had offended her.
– Word is someone got bumped out of scholarship zone this morning.
– Let me guess. They didn't take it well?
– They cried in the hallway. Then their friend punched a locker.
– Symbolism.
– Drama.
I sipped my soup.
– What about Yeonjun?
– No friends. No enemies. He lives like a side character in his own movie.
– Until now.
She raised an eyebrow.
– You're planning something.
– Not yet.
– That's worse.
Across the room, Bora watched us. Not subtly. Her fingers drummed against the table, rhythmically, like she was waiting for something. Or someone.
– What's her problem today? I muttered.
– You still have a face. That's probably it.
I laughed. Too hard. Too sudden. The room didn't follow. The sound stood out like a crack in glass. I quieted.
– Let them look, Yuri said, biting into her kimchi. – At least they're not trying to bury you in silence anymore.
– Not yet.
That afternoon, I waited near the east stairwell. It was where Yeonjun passed every Thursday before club sessions. He didn't have a club, officially. But he always disappeared for an hour after class. I wanted to see where.
When he appeared, he didn't act surprised to see me.
– You're persistent.
– I'm thorough.
– You want something.
– I want to know why someone like you stays quiet in a place that feeds on silence.
He paused on the last step. Looked at me like I'd just said something dangerous.
– Because silence isn't always surrender.
– Sometimes it's a shield. I get it.
– No. Sometimes it's a knife.
I stepped closer.
– Someone's using your silence to protect their own rank. They're using you as insulation. You don't owe them anything.
He didn't answer right away. But his hands curled just slightly at his sides.
– Be careful, he said.
– Of what?
– When you break silence, someone always bleeds.
Then he walked away. No club. No direction. Just away. But I knew I'd touched something.
Back in my apartment, I opened Yena's file again. Cross-referenced names. Checked activity logs. There it was: Ji Yeonjun's last three projects were submitted under someone else's group. Someone ranked in the teens. Someone he never sat beside.
He wasn't just being used. He was being erased.
And if I could prove it, I had my first real pressure point.